It’s much easier to drink when you aren’t cringing at every sip, and by the time we get to the city, I find myself laughing more easily and swaying with the motion of the bus.

We finally arrive at the club and disembark. I thank the driver as I wobble down the stairs, not sure if it’s the champagne or my shoes making it such a problem. I reach for Robbie’s arm, to balance myself.

“Are you all right?” He turns to me with concern in his eyes.

I swallow and nod, suddenly speechless.

We line up at the club. Colleen and Braden somehow make it to the front of the line right away, but Robbie and I hang back, not wanting to cut anyone. We get our hands stamped by a large man in a tight black shirt and head inside. The club is rapidly filling, and colored lights sweep over the dim downstairs dance floor. Across the room is a bar and a DJ stand that is currently emanating a remix of a Drake song while the DJ holds a headphone to his ear with one hand and pushes buttons with the other.

Above my head, a sort of balcony circles the room, accessible by a sweeping staircase at the edge of the dance floor. On the balcony are big leather booths and tables with sparkling chandeliers hanging above them.

People rush by me, some heading straight to the dance floor, others swarming the bar.

I see Braden across the room, and the flash of a credit card being handed over before a bouncer moves to let him upstairs. Colleen is on his arm, and following close behind are a number of girls in similarly tight, short dresses. I guess she’s done with me then. It stings, but what did I really expect, given how she’s treated me these past two weeks?

“Look at Braden,” I turn to Robbie and say.

“Yep.” He shrugs. “Classic. Want to get a drink?”

I follow him through the crowd circling the bar, everyone trying to get the bartender’s attention. He’s a young guy, not much older than us, in a gray T-shirt and tattoos down his arm. Like most bartenders I’ve seen, he’s quite good-looking; I wonder if that’s a requirement for the job.

Then again, most bartenders I’ve seen have been on TV.

I watch him pour translucent gold liquid into a line of shot glasses. Tequila. My stomach turns over just thinking about the smell. I wonder if it’s bad to order wine at a club like this. Or champagne, for that matter. Most of the people around me seem to be taking shots.

“Do you think they have a cocktail menu?” I ask Robbie.